Chapter 23
Stanford pulled up his coat collar, insulating himself against the chill in the air.
‘I heard Oprah say once that your home should rise up to meet you.’ The garden gate was missing and tall weeds that had begun to flower grew through the multiple cracks in the stained paving stone.
‘This house looks like it’s about to drag you down to the pits of hell. ’
‘Yeah, it’s not the best is it?’ Eastwood wrinkled her nose at piles of cat litter that had spilled from the multiple bags in the corner of the small garden. She pressed the doorbell.
The outline of a figure appeared in the frosted panels of the front door. There was the sound of a lock turning and then the door cracked open, a silver chain still secured to the wall cut across the man’s face on the other side.
‘Laurence Durant?’ Eastwood asked.
‘Who’s asking?’ the man’s voice was low and hoarse as though he was recovering from a cold.
‘I’m DS Eastwood and this is my colleague DS Stanford. We’d like to have a word,’ she held up her warrant card to the gap.
The chain pressed against the man’s cheek as he pushed his face closer against it to squint at Eastwood’s ID. A second later, the door closed shut and they heard the distinct sound of the chain sliding back and the door reopened.
‘Laurence Durant?’ Eastwood repeated.
‘Larry,’ he said. ‘Come in but watch where you step. The kittens are roaming.’
Inside, the house contrasted with the exterior. It was clean and looked to have been recently decorated but Larry himself looked neglected. His greying beard was unkempt and there were visible stains on his misshapen navy T-shirt. The smell of burnt bacon lingered in the air.
‘So, what can I do for you?’ He picked up the remote control from the sofa and lowered the TV volume.
‘We’re here to ask you some questions about Graham and Tabitha Ashcroft,’ Eastwood explained as she picked up a tortoiseshell kitten that had dug their claws into her jeans and was attempting to climb.
‘I don’t have anything to say about them.’ Larry took the kitten from Eastwood’s hand and placed it in a cage.
‘I’m afraid it doesn’t quite work like that,’ said Stanford as he walked across the room and sat down at the table, gently pushing aside a towering pile of papers.
‘It looks like we interrupted you,’ he commented.
‘You did,’ said Larry. ‘I’m marking exam papers and the last thing I want to do is talk about those people.’
‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to and, to be honest, I’d rather do it here as opposed to going through the trouble of taking you down to the local station.’
Larry stared at Eastwood through narrowed eyes as he lowered himself into an armchair.
‘What happened to your hand?’ Eastwood asked, pointing at the scabs and bruises on his knuckles.
Larry turned his hand and looked at his knuckles as though he’d just realised that the wounds were there. ‘I had an accident in the back. Gardening. Ask me your questions because as I said—’
‘We know. You’re busy,’ Eastwood replied. ‘So, let’s get to it. I know that you’ve been through a lot and the last thing you want to do is talk about the Ashcrofts.’
‘They ruined my life. I don’t my want their names spoken in my house.’
‘If there was a way I could ask you these questions without mentioning their names then I would, but that’s not possible,’ Eastwood was sympathetic. ‘Take a moment. Steady yourself and listen carefully to what I ask you.’
Larry stared intensely at Eastwood, the muscles flexing in his arms as he gripped the armrest. After a few seconds he nodded at her.
‘Thank you,’ said Eastwood. ‘Someone tried to kill Tabitha and—’
‘Tried to kill?’ Larry interrupted abruptly. He huffed and shook his head. ‘You’ve knocked the wrong door if you’re expecting me to feel sorry for her.’
‘Tried to kill her and her husband,’ Eastwood continued. ‘We’ve checked your record, and we can see that you were arrested for threatening words and behaviour on the date that Mrs Ashcroft was sentenced.’
‘That woman killed my wife, and she walked out of court with a slap on a bloody wrist. She should have been sent to jail to rot so I—’
Larry stopped, his chest rising and dropping as anger visibly swarmed him. ‘I had a few things to say outside of court.’
‘You threatened to kill Tabitha Ashcroft,’ said Stanford.
‘How many times have you said that you want to kill someone?’ asked Larry, turning to Stanford. ‘It doesn’t mean that I would actually do it. I was just angry.’
‘And are you still angry?’ asked Eastwood.
‘What do you think? I’m sitting here with you two and my wife is in Croydon Cemetery.’
‘Last Sunday night, Tabitha and Graham were attacked in their home. Tabitha managed to escape but Graham wasn’t so lucky. He was stabbed and was run over by a car.’
‘I don’t have a car,’ Larry said quickly.
‘DVLA records say you own a 2012 Skoda Octavia,’ said Stanford.
‘That’s a mistake. I sold it.’
‘When?’
‘When Sherri was killed by a car.’
‘Before the attack, the Ashcrofts had their car tyres slashed and had been receiving threatening letters,’ Eastwood added.
‘That wasn’t me,’ Larry replied as his eyes cast to the left. ‘If that’s what you’re trying to suggest.’
‘I’m not going to suggest it, but I am going to ask if you’ve been to the Ashcrofts’ house?’
Larry shook his head. ‘I don’t even know where they live.’
‘They’ve also alleged that you blackmailed them.’
‘I did what?’
‘Blackmailed them. Asked for money. ￡10,000 which they paid to you.’
Eastwood and Stanford kept their eyes on Larry as he placed his hands on his legs and straightened his back. The TV played quietly as the kittens meowed and Larry breathed heavily.
‘That is. A. Lie,’ Larry said calmly. ‘A bloody lie.’
‘Did you send them letters and demands for money?’ asked Stanford.
‘Are you really going to believe the words of a murderer?’ Larry asked.
‘Where were you last Sunday, late in the evening, just before midnight?’
‘I was here, at home. I went to my son’s house for Sunday lunch. I was back by five – five-thirty. I spent the evening doing my lesson prep and I fell asleep right here, in front of Match of the Day 2. I woke up about 2 a.m. and went upstairs to bed,’ Larry replied, his tone becoming angrier.
‘Were you home alone?’
‘My wife is dead.’
Stanford looked across at Eastwood who was studying Larry intently.
‘Do I need a lawyer?’ Larry asked, breaking the silence. ‘Because these questions you’re asking me, I don’t like it.’
‘How long were you and your wife married?’ Eastwood asked, leaving Larry’s question unanswered.
‘We met in school, but we didn’t get married until we were in our early twenties. We were about to celebrate our fortieth wedding anniversary when that woman murdered Sherri.’
‘Have you ever been to the Ashcrofts’ home or their place of work?’ asked Eastwood as Stanford stood up and walked over to the mantelpiece. He picked up Sherri Durant’s funeral programme, the edges dirty and curling as though it’d been picked up and read numerous times.
‘No, I haven’t been to their house or anywhere else,’ Larry stood up, took two long strides across the living room and snatched the funeral programme out of Stanford’s hand. ‘Tabitha Ashcroft killed my wife,’ he said through gritted teeth as though her name was cauterising his flesh.
‘We’re not expecting you to like the questions we ask,’ said Stanford, eyeballing Larry.
Larry turned his back as he carefully placed the programme back on the mantelpiece.
‘I don’t like them and I’m not answering any more. So, if you want answers, you’ll have to arrest me and speak to my lawyer.’
‘Do you believe him?’ asked Eastwood as they walked away from Larry’s house. ‘That he got the injuries on his hands from gardening?’
‘The only thing he didn’t lie about was marking exam papers,’ Stanford replied.
‘Maybe we should— Where on earth are you going?’ Eastwood asked as Stanford left her side and jogged across the road. She turned to follow, but had to stop as a bus drove past.
‘Why did you run off like that?’ Eastwood asked once she’d joined Stanford.
‘Something caught my eye when I picked up his missus’s funeral programme from the mantelpiece.’ Stanford took out his phone and opened his email. ‘Explain to me why you would have a resident parking permit, if you don’t own a car.’
‘You wouldn’t,’ Eastwood said.
‘And why would a Skoda Octavia that you said you don’t own be parked on the other side of the street.’
‘The lying little—’
‘Read out the number plate. I’ll check it matches the DVLA records.’
‘SB12 LKW.’
‘Snap,’ said Stanford, walking to the front of the car. ‘Eastie take a look at this.’
‘I think the old man in there did more than just lie,’ said Eastwood as Stanford took photos of the large spider-webbed crack on the windscreen and the dented bumper.